


Seeping Through the Cracks

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: BBC Sherlock kink meme fill, Fluff, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Pre-Slash, WIP, can be read as gen or pre-slash, i don't really know where this came from, it just kind of starts, tbh I read everything with slash goggles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-14
Updated: 2013-11-05
Packaged: 2017-12-29 09:04:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,913
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1003549
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fill for a prompt on the Sherlock BBC Prompting Meme. </p><p>Prompt: </p><p>http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/21766.html?thread=128506630#t128506630</p><p>I want a fic where Sherlock ends up in a situation where he has to kill someone for the first time. Make it bloody, make it uncoordinated. Make it clearly in self-defense. Hell, make it an accident.</p><p>I want police to get there too late and find Sherlock and the dead body. He's not quite hyperventilating, but he's breathing heavily and he's trembling and he's babbling nonsensically. He's clearly shocky and not at all the cold sociopath everyone believes him to be.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Warning for attempted non-con! Also original (minor) character death, and blood. Not much gore, really, but it's there.
> 
> Unbeta-ed.

“You’re a beautiful thing, Mr. Holmes,” the suspect says, eyeing Sherlock with a predatory gaze. “Beautiful and at my mercy. Do you know what I normally do when I find myself presented with such an opportunity?

“I have a fairly good idea,” Sherlock replies evenly, leaning casually against the cement wall of the warehouse. The suspect—Rory Millard—is taller and bulkier than Sherlock, and he has a gun, which gives him an advantage. Sherlock’s eyes flick over his form, from which he can read Millard’s entire story, but he needs no more information to know with whom he is dealing. This is a powerful man, and Sherlock has managed to get him on his own. Unfortunately, through a miscalculation on his part— _stupid_ , he thinks—Millard divested him of his phone before he could notify Lestrade. John should be able to figure out where he is soon enough, but for the time being Sherlock has to rely on his own resources.

There is a sharp bit of metal behind Sherlock. He has it grasped loosely in his hand—available as a weapon if necessary, but not held tightly enough to attract attention. Millard would have to be fairly close to him in order for it to be an effective weapon, however, but Sherlock senses that things are likely to move in that direction without much manipulation on his part.

“Yes,” Millard replies, his mouth twisting into sinister grin. “Yes, I suppose you would, Sherlock Holmes. All those _brains_. Worth a pretty price, I’d imagine. But what about the rest of you, eh? Underneath all those fancy clothes. Ever been _touched_ , Mr. Holmes?” The man is drawing closer now, and Sherlock registers his dilated pupils and slightly flushed skin. He feels a prickle of apprehension, but stifles it, concentrating on Millard’s movements and the weapon behind his back. He braces himself, preparing to strike, but just then Millard stops.

“Now now, none of that. Let’s see those hands,” he croons, and Sherlock raises them in defeat.

“You’re more observant than I would have given you credit for,” Sherlock comments, holding back a gasp as Millard grabs him roughly by the wrist and twists. He lets go a moment later, smiling.

“Look at that self control. Let’s see if I can’t break it.” His voice echoes a bit in the empty room, and Sherlock fights against the urge to struggle. At this point it will only make things worse. He has suffered pain before at the hands of London’s criminals; this won’t be any different. _It’s just transport_ , he tells himself, as Millard forces him down to the cold ground, holding the gun against his head.

“You’re a quiet one,” Millard observes, as he starts unbuckling his belt. Sherlock’s face is pressed against the floor, but he can see Millard’s leg out of the corner of his eye and feel where his knees straddle Sherlock’s hips. “Wonder what your boyfriend would have to say about this? Good old John Watson. Pity you won’t see him again.”

Suddenly, Sherlock is picturing John walking in on this, imagining what Millard might be doing to him at that point, and he realizes in a flood of panic that he really, _really_ does not want to let this man go any further. It takes him a split second to conclude that his only option, given his position, is to act very quickly and using the only weapon available to him: the gun.

Millard is reaching around to Sherlock’s belt now, and Sherlock pushes down a surge of fear. Focus. He waits until Millard is occupied with undoing the belt one-handedly, hopefully concentrating less on holding the gun, before acting. Sherlock wrenches his elbow up violently, hitting Millard’s arm and causing him to drop the gun. He wriggles out from underneath the man and grabs the weapon, spinning around to see Millard looming over him with an ugly look on his face. Sherlock raises the gun instinctively and before he can think too hard about it, he fires, unsure even of where the bullet is headed.

Millard makes a shocked noise in his throat and drops, sprawling on the ground. There is blood, a lot of it, and Sherlock scrambles up, trying to see what damage he’s done. Millard looks up at him, and something in his eyes makes Sherlock’s heart drop out of his chest. He doesn’t look like a hardened criminal anymore. Not even close. He looks like a child.

“I,” Millard rasps, “I wasn’t finished—”

Sherlock reels backwards. The man is dead now. He’s dead, and he was alive a moment ago, and for some reason Sherlock cannot let go of that thought. He’s never killed before, but he hadn’t imagined it would be at all difficult. Dying is what people do. _I wasn’t finished._ He wasn’t finished, and Sherlock ended it anyway, ended him, and there’s blood on his hands, when did that happen? He wipes them on his trousers, but that just smears it, and there is still blood pumping out of Millard’s body, an absolute ocean of it. Suddenly it seems like the entire room, the entire warehouse is coated in blood, and it’s all Sherlock’s fault. _I wasn’t finished._ It had been a life. Now it wasn’t. And Sherlock had done it.

The lights are too bright. Sherlock doesn’t want to see the ocean of blood. He can smell it, too, and he can hear it, hear _I wasn’t finished_ echoing off the walls. His skin feels sticky, painted with blood. Sherlock stumbles, trying to get away from the body, but he can’t seem to see clearly. He doesn’t know where the exit is. Instead he finds himself a corner and collapses, his legs giving out. Sherlock imagines them melting into the ever-rising pool of blood, and he presses himself against the wall, trying to block it all out. _I wasn’t finished._

 


	2. Chapter 2

John sighs as Sherlock's phone goes once again to voicemail. It's been too long since anyone last heard from the detective, and it makes John uneasy. He knows the car is going as fast as possible, weaving through London's traffic with sirens blaring, but still he wants to urge the driver to go faster. He gazes out of the window at the rain-drenched city and hopes to god that Sherlock has simply forgotten to charge his phone. The thought fails to ease his trepidation. 

Lestrade peers at him through the rearview mirror. "He'll be all right, John. It's Sherlock, he can take care of himself." 

"Yeah," John mutters. It's true; he's seen Sherlock take down men twice his size with the agility of a trained fighter, and that's when he hasn't been able to simply talk his way out of a confrontation. But he can't prevent the worry that grips him when he thinks about the detective taking on this particular man by himself. John is supposed to be there, to be the brawn to Sherlock's brain, but Sherlock had slipped away from the crime scene unnoticed. Again. John grits his teeth, exasperation warring with concern. He tries Sherlock's number again, with no result. 

They pull over to the curb moments later, and John jumps gratefully out onto the sidewalk. Lestrade's team is already breaking down the door of the warehouse, and John rushes eagerly in after them, hoping to see Sherlock's tall form striding towards him. Instead, he is met with a vast room, largely empty but for a bit of clutter around the edges and a man lying in a growing pool of blood. For a moment, John's heart stops in his chest, but he breathes out again in relief when he gets a glimpse of the blond hair and stocky figure of their suspect: not Sherlock.

A fluorescent bulb burns in the middle of the ceiling, illuminating the grisly scene but casting the edges of the room into shadow. John peers into the gloom, but can't make out anything. Some of the police officers are beginning to scan the corners with their torches, and John waits, on edge, for a glimpse of Sherlock. 

"Here!" One of the officers calls out, a moment later. John snaps his head around and sees, with a flood of relief, Sherlock's familiar silhouette coming toward them, lit up by the beam of a torch. His relief is short-lived, however. Sherlock is behaving strangely, clinging to the wall and seeming not to hear Lestrade calling his name, and John feels a renewed spike of fear. He moves forward, weaving his way through the crowd with his eyes trained on the consulting detective and trying to gauge whether or not he is injured. When he is just a few feet away, Sherlock's head snaps up, and John's breath catches in his throat.

Sherlock looks wrecked. His skin is pale, one side of his face is scratched, and his eyes are wide and terrified. He blinks at John and then frowns down at John's feet. John realizes that Sherlock has himself pressed up against the wall, as though afraid to get close to the center of the room. 

"Sherlock," John starts, carefully, but the other man interrupts him. 

"You'll get your shoes bloody," he says in a rough voice. "You should stay clean, John. You don't like...mess...." Sherlock shivers and looks down at his own hands in disgust. John realizes that they are stained with blood, and closes his eyes briefly as he puts two and two together. When he opens them, Sherlock is looking down at himself with a lost expression that makes John's heart twinge. 

"Sherlock, I'm sorry," John says quietly. Sherlock looks up at him in confusion. 

Anderson chooses that moment to saunter up and sneer at Sherlock. "Finally cracked, has he?" John whirls around, the sudden rage making his fists tighten, but Donovan has gotten there first.

"Don't," she says sharply, laying a hand on Anderson's arm. Anderson looks up with an astonished expression that John is sure Sherlock would normally have found comedic. John meets Donovan's eyes, but she looks away quickly and turns, pulling Anderson away with her. He turns back to Sherlock, who is frowning at him. 

"John, why do I....there's so much blood, but you....it doesn't touch you...." Sherlock murmurs, his wide eyes traveling down to John's shoes and back up. He reaches out with one blood-stained hand and touches John's arm, tentatively, and suddenly his legs buckle. John only just manages to get an arm around him in time to stop him from crumpling the ground.

"All right, Sherlock, I've got you," John says bracingly, wrapping his arm more securely around Sherlock's waist. It's then that John realizes Sherlock's belt buckle is undone. 

Everything freezes for a moment as a flash of white hot rage courses through him. It startles John, this violent anger, but he knows without a doubt that if Millard was not already dead, John would have had a hard time refraining from killing him on the spot.  _Jesus._ He strengthens the arm around Sherlock and asks, in a low voice, "did he hurt you?"

Sherlock shakes his head, the curls tickling John's temple. "He wanted to, but I didn't want—he got my belt undone, and then I—then I—I killed him. I killed him, John." John can feel Sherlock trembling in his arms, and he sighs, pulling him closer. Other people, people who don't know Sherlock as well as John does, might imagine that he would find killing easy. They might imagine that he's done it before. But John has seen Sherlock's vulnerable side and knows that there is, in fact, a lot of sensitivity under that cold exterior. He's seen too many young soldiers collapse after their first kills to not recognize this for what it is. 

"I'm glad you did," John says gently. "You had no choice."

Lestrade jogs up to them then, and takes in Sherlock's state. "Bloody hell," the DI says, meeting John's eyes. "Is he....all right?" 

"Physically, yeah. But he's in shock," John says, shifting Sherlock's arm up over his own shoulders. "Millard tried to assault him, I think. Sexually. I don't think he's had to kill anyone before." 

"M'fine," Sherlock mumbles, even as he starts shivering more violently.

"You are not," John says, and sighs. It's never easy, taking a life, but the first time is especially difficult. He feels a pang in his chest as he thinks about how innocent Sherlock is in so many ways. 

Lestrade scrubs a hand over his face. "Christ. I'll get him a blanket, yeah? And then you can take him home. We'll get his statement tomorrow." Lestrade rests a hand briefly on Sherlock's shoulder. "Get some rest, mate." He meets John's eyes and John gives a grateful nod before Lestrade disappears back into the crowd of officers. 

"John," Sherlock mutters. "I can't think.  _Why_ can't I think?" 

"You're in shock," John says, supporting Sherlock's weight as they shuffle towards the exit. One of the officers hands them an orange blanket, and John smiles at her in thanks. 

"M'not," Sherlock says, clutching at the blanket as it is wrapped around him. 

"Yeah, you are."

"John," Sherlock says, and he sounds close to tears.

John runs his hand lightly over Sherlock's torso as he helps the taller man into the back of a cab. "You'll get through it, don't worry. It's natural, Sherlock. Killing's never as easy as you think it will be."

"John," Sherlock murmurs again, pressing his nose against John's neck. John runs his hand through Sherlock's curls as he gives the cabbie the address, and they stay that way, curled against each other, as London passes by and they head toward home. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This will be moving into h/c territory later. Going to try to keep it gen, though, which will be new for me. Let me know what you think! Criticism is always helpful. Thanks.


	3. Chapter 3

By the time they arrive at Baker Street, Sherlock’s trembling has calmed a bit, although his limbs still shake when he eases his way out onto the pavement. John pays the cabbie quickly, and turns to see Sherlock glaring fiercely at his own hands.

“This is ridiculous!” The detective snarls, although his usual venom is absent, replaced by something more like desperation. John sighs quietly and puts a hand on Sherlock’s back.

“All right, Sherlock. Let’s go inside.” 

“You don’t need to _coddle_ me, John,” Sherlock mutters, but he relaxes slightly under John’s touch and allows the doctor to guide him up the steps to the door. John can’t help feeling relieved to hear Sherlock respond with some semblance of his regular scorn, even if it does sound heartbreakingly subdued.

The stairs up to their flat take a visible toll on Sherlock, although John can tell he is doing his best to hide it. Once inside, Sherlock tries to head straight for the couch, but John stops him.

“Sherlock, you’ve still got your coat on,” he says gently. “And I don’t know if you want to sit down now; you might fall asleep there, and I think you’d do better with an actual bed tonight.”

Sherlock hesitates, catching John’s eye and then looking away. After a moment he tugs his coat off, the orange shock blanket still clinging to it, and goes to toss it over the back of John’s chair. John intercepts the movement and grabs the coat to hang it up, his fingers brushing against Sherlock’s briefly.

“Christ, you’re freezing,” John says, frowning. “Here— ” He looks around for a blanket, and, spotting one trailing from the arm of the sofa, grabs it and holds it out to Sherlock. “Take this.” Sherlock’s arms take a minute to respond, but when they do, he clutches at the blanket, as though grateful to have something to hold on to.

John looks at Sherlock’s mussed hair, his scratched face, his lips, turned down at the corners, and feels an overwhelming urge to somehow make it all right again. Sherlock’s job isn’t to kill; the parts of the job that are dirty and dark, that get under your skin, those aren’t his division. Sherlock focuses on the clean, cool logic of it. Even when he is elbows-deep in blood and gore, Sherlock sees only the science, the way the puzzle pieces fit together; John knows him well enough to see that Sherlock finds it beautiful. Death, crime, violence…. In Sherlock’s mind, they are merely parts of some complex web that explains the world. But this time, he was forced to get a taste of the uglier side. Of course it’s shaken him.

“Listen,” John says, hesitantly. He doesn’t know exactly what Sherlock needs—he rarely does—but the man looks off-balance, like he’s been robbed of his wings, and John does know something about losing track of yourself. “I was a soldier, Sherlock. I’ve seen this a hundred times—I’ve lived it. You’ll get over it. It’s just…. Part of being human. But, you know that if you…. You can talk to me, if you want. That’s all.”

Sherlock frowns and looks down at his hands, which still trembling lightly around the blanket in his arms. “John…." He says, and pauses. "You don’t think. I’m not a…. I’m not a psychopath. And I just, I think you should know that, in light of recent events, because I know what Donovan says, and Anderson, and I would rather, that is, I think it would be better if you didn’t—" 

John cuts him off, stepping closer over a pile of police files. “Enough. I know you aren’t a psychopath, Sherlock. Not even close. Frankly, I don’t believe you’re a sociopath either. Anderson and Donovan can stuff it, they’re idiots.” Sherlock looks down, and John doesn’t miss the breath he lets out in relief, nor the way he sways slightly when he looks back up. “You need sleep,” John says gently.

Sherlock rolls his eyes, but turns and pads to his room, shutting the door behind him without another word. John heads to the kitchen and makes a cup of tea, navigating around the vials of mysterious liquids with practiced ease. It’s been an eventful evening, and he needs to wind down before he can get any sleep. Sinking down in his chair, he flicks on the telly, keeping the volume low so as not to bother Sherlock. 

John is just starting to drop off when Sherlock’s door swings open again, and Sherlock emerges in his pajamas and dressing gown, the blanket wrapped around his shoulders.

“Sherlock?” John asks, lifting his head and blinking hard. “All right?”

Sherlock pads silently over to the sofa and flops down on it. “Can’t sleep,” he mumbles.

“Oh,” John says, and pauses. He’d been planning to go up to his room eventually, but something makes him think twice. Watching Sherlock press his face into the pillow, he says cautiously, “well, I’ll be here for a while, probably.”

Sherlock looks up at him then, something uncertain in his gaze. John gives him a small smile. “I was just dropping off actually,” he says. “Do you mind the telly on?”

Sherlock draws his knees up closer, and his eyelids flicker. “No,” he says, his voice low. “It’s fine.”

“Right,” John says, and turns his gaze back to the screen, settling back down into the cushions. “Good.”

It’s only a couple of minutes before John starts to feel drowsy again. He glances over at the sofa, but Sherlock’s eyes have already slipped closed, and his breathing is even. John smiles to himself as his own head drops. Sherlock will be fine, he thinks, and lets sleep take him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll probably do another short chapter (well, this fic is quite short overall) after this, although I'm not sure yet what I'll put in it. Feedback appreciated! Thank you!


	4. Chapter 4

Sherlock wakes early, gray morning light just beginning to seep in through the curtains. The patter of rain outside is soothing, and he stretches languidly, cataloguing the bruises on his body and then dismissing them. It’s then that the memory of the previous night crashes in on him: the smell of the blood, the knowledge that a man had died at his hand. Sherlock tenses, prepared for another onslaught of the horrible, disorienting feeling of shock, but when he glances down at his hands they are perfectly steady. He lets out a slow breath, relieved. Such reactions aren’t meant to plague him anymore; he’s trained himself not to become emotionally involved. Apparently his transport occasionally has other ideas, however.

It’s over now, though. Sherlock knows it was necessary. More importantly, John knows it was necessary. Sherlock is momentarily taken aback by how much this fact comforts him, but he puts it out of his mind. _Pathetic._

He swings his legs over the side of the sofa and stands up, glancing over at John’s chair. He’s surprised to see that John is still fast asleep in it, curled up under a thin blanket. The bad shoulder will pay for that decision. Sherlock turns off the telly, sighing at the banal program, and drapes his own blanket over John on his way to the bathroom. A cold John is an irritable John, and everything is really much more pleasant when John is in a good mood.

By the time Sherlock gets out of the shower, John has woken up and is making tea. He turns as Sherlock steps out in his dressing gown and looks him over with narrowed eyes, clearly trying to assess Sherlock’s mental state.

“I’m fine, John,” Sherlock says brusquely, drifting into the kitchen to grab a cup of tea before heading towards his bedroom.

“Glad to hear it,” John says to his back. Sherlock can hear his lingering concern in the upward intonation, and pauses for a moment, wondering if he needs to allow a bit of vulnerability to bleed through so John doesn’t think he’s gotten over it too quickly. He suppresses the instinct, however; he doesn’t need to put up façades with John, not like he does with other people. There’s still a touch of fear hovering around his sternum when he imagines how John could have reacted to the previous night’s events. Sherlock knows he walks a fine line between sort of not good and unforgivably not good. The last thing he wants is to stumble over that line and lose the one person who tolerates him as slightly more than a brain on legs.

He wants nothing more than to turn and interrogate John, to ensure that there is no fear hiding in those hazel eyes. But he doesn’t, instead shutting his door and doing his best to reassure himself that John is more reasonable than that. He takes a breath and dresses, feeling the last vestiges of that dirty, bloody feeling being smoothed away by the swish of expensive silk.

Mild embarrassment at the way he’d acted has begun to set in now, and Sherlock tries not to dwell on the memories. Really, after a display like that, he shouldn’t be worried about John thinking him dangerous. The anxiety doesn’t leave him, however. It’s irrational, and Sherlock glares at himself in the mirror. It doesn’t make sense. Time to get over it, then.

John is waiting to ambush him with a plate of toast when he exits the bedroom. Sherlock tries to ignore it, but John intercepts him again, holding out the plate with his most stubborn expression.

“Lestrade will be here soon. Eat, Sherlock. You need food.”

That gets Sherlock’s attention. “He’s coming here? Why?”

John sighs. “Sherlock, he probably just wants to make sure you’re, you know, all right, after last night.” He puts the plate into Sherlock’s hands. “Eat.”

Sherlock accepts the plate resignedly, rolling his eyes. “I’m fine.”

“Yeah, well,” John says, giving him a hard look, “forgive me—and him—for not bouncing back quite as quickly as you seem to have.”

Sherlock tenses immediately, his hands tightening on the plate. “Don’t bother, John,” he snaps, turning away. “Don’t try to _humanize_ me. I’m _cold-blooded_ , a _sociopath._ Surely you’ve been prepared for the other shoe to drop.” His voice is dripping in derision, and he stares down at the countertop, startled by his own reaction but unable to stifle the tingling unease.

“Sherlock, no,” John says, and his voice is so unexpectedly gentle that Sherlock flinches. “That’s not what I meant.”

Sherlock huffs out a breath, but before he can construct a suitably disdainful response, there is a knock at the door.

“Boys! The Detective Inspector is here to see you!” Mrs. Hudson cracks the door open. John gives Sherlock one more look that says _you’re an idiot_ and then turns and waves Lestrade in.

The DI steps in, hands in his pockets and looking warily at the pair of them. Mrs. Hudson quietly shuts the door behind him.

“Sherlock, how are you?” Lestrade asks, sharing a brief glance with John before giving him a once-over.

“Fine,” Sherlock growls, his skin prickling. “Are you here to see if I’ve snapped? Gone over to the dark side?”

“Sherlock,” John says, rubbing a hand over his face. Lestrade frowns, narrowing his eyes at Sherlock.

“No,” the DI says. “I’m actually here to get your statement. And to see how you’re doing.”

“Well, I’m fine, as I’ve already said. Although apparently I am expected to still be a sniveling mess.” Sherlock pinches the crust of his toast and watches it crumble into dust. There’s a burning in his throat, like shame, but he forces it down.

“All right, Sherlock, enough,” John says, and moves into Sherlock’s line of sight, forcing their eyes to meet. “No one thinks you’ve turned into a murderer all of a sudden. It’s good that you’re over it. As long as you really _are_ over it. You don’t have to be.”

“Yes, thank you _Doctor,_ ” Sherlock mutters.

“Sherlock, look,” Lestrade says, taking a hesitant step forward. “You’re an arrogant pain in the arse, sure. But, deep down, I do like you. I think you’re, well,” he pauses, scratching awkwardly at his neck. “I think you’re a good man.”

Sherlock laughs once. “Don’t delude yourself, Lestrade.” John begins to interrupt, but Sherlock overrides him, making his voice a touch gentler. “Thank you, Detective Inspector. Now, can we get on with this?”

Lestrade looks at him for a moment, and then nods, acquiescing. John crosses his arms, but says nothing as Sherlock begins to fill Lestrade in on what happened in the warehouse. He delivers the story factually, ignoring the way John tenses when he describes the way Millard climbed on top of him. The memory is unpleasant, but Sherlock is in control now, and his face betrays nothing.

When he’s finished, Lestrade shuffles his papers together and stands up. “Thank you, Sherlock. Glad you’re feeling better.” Sherlock just nods at him. The DI looks like he wants to say something more, but he just taps the file on the table once again, gives John a nod, and takes his leave.

Sherlock hears Mrs. Hudson showing him out, and turns to see John looking at him with his lips pursed.

“What now, John?” Sherlock snaps.

John sighs and uncrosses his arms. “What exactly were you expecting from us, Sherlock?” He asks. “That we’d suddenly not trust you because you had to kill a man? Or even that we’d be afraid of you?” He sounds sad, and Sherlock narrows his eyes, unsure where this is going.

“Am I so far off the mark, John?” He shoots back. “You’d be well within your rights to be afraid now, wouldn’t you? I’m not reacting _normally._ I’ve bounced back too quickly, you said it yourself.” Sherlock turns away, seething. He’s not sure if he’s angry with John for being so predictable, or angry with himself for letting John down. The kill had been necessary, but he can’t shake the feeling that he’s failed somehow.

“Did you listen to me at all?” John sounds exasperated now. “I said it was good that you’d moved on!”

“But it’s still _shocking_ ,” Sherlock mutters. “Still…. _freakish._ ”

“No, Sherlock, stop. Stop it. Look at me, Sherlock.” Sherlock looks up. John has moved closer and is looking at him intently, his forehead creased in a frown. When he speaks, his voice is soft and deliberate. “Last night hasn’t changed the way I see you in the slightest. I’m sorry I didn’t believe you when you said you’d gotten over it—it’s just that my first kill weighed on me for a while.” He laughs bitterly. “I suppose you’re a stronger man. But listen, Sherlock, you’re not a freak. You are a good person, I know it. In fact, you’re the most brilliant man I know. So.” John looks a touch embarrassed at the sentiment, but he refuses to break eye contact. He nods briefly, holding Sherlock’s gaze until Sherlock looks down.

“You….really believe that?” Sherlock asks, clearing his throat.

“Yes, Sherlock. Of course.”

There’s a brief silence, in which Sherlock frowns studiously at his own hands curled on the tabletop. He clears his throat again and looks back up.

“You aren’t a weaker man, John. I’m just….” Sherlock pauses.

“Unique,” John says, smiling at him. Sherlock feels a bit of warmth creeping into his face, but is saved by the buzz of a text message. He whips out his phone and is shrugging on his coat within seconds, the thrill of the chase already fuelling his movements.

“Case, John!” He says, and turns to see John already tugging on his own jacket. He can’t quite help the smile that tugs at the corners of his mouth when John turns to look at him, an answering spark in the doctor’s eyes. John grins back, and soon they are clattering down the stairs and onto the pavement side by side, and it’s perfect, all perfect. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! This was a bit of a challenge, because I was keeping it gen and that's new for me, so feedback would be much appreciated!


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